I Mark the Day

I mark the day, a Sunday, lying in bed
nothing much on my mind but what Instagram to send
and how to get to Streetfest later that day and
what we would wear and by we, I mean, the babes

I mark the hour, my brother’s
voice so normal on the phone, I was going to tease him
for not calling sooner, he said he’d seen my pictures
from dinner the night before, and I was just getting ready
to settle into our gist when

he told me

I mark the sound of my brother’s voice
cracking then dissolving
I’m so sorry, I’m sorry for you, I’m sorry for all of us
the phone slipping from my hand, my jaw slackened in pantomime
my head against the wall, was I shouting?

The boys running in, I mark their anxious little eyes,
faces crumpling and then three of us
in the kitchen in a huddle, sobbing

I mark the sense, the strange sensation in the car
when my eyes were closed, filtering sunlight,
that somehow Mummy sat in me, calm, guiding,
a gentle compass within the turmoil
raging inside

I mark the door opening and my sister, somehow smaller
I fall onto her with relief and drench her
shoulder as she holds me, it’s ok, it’s ok

I mark the phone calls, the many many phone calls,
some bewildered, others stoic, some who waited days, maybe even weeks
to gather the strength to call, all of them with the same message
she was special, she was loved, hang in therejisike, it is well
and still more calls, some that pushed us both over
the edge of what we tried to contain
some when I was the comforter, while the voice on the
other end shrieked her loss, murmured his disbelief

I mark the hours of planning and preparation and bookings
and dress fittings and account balances and
email after email after email and date setting
and the tireless work of friends and family
almost on auto pilot, moving inexorably toward the day

I mark the day the coffin arrived. I mark the rain. I mark the crowd that stood beside. I mark the wailing of sisters. I mark the pain. I mark the hearse moving ahead.
I mark the throng. I mark the singing, a magnificent chorus lifting and carrying us from Abuja to Owerri to Onitsha to the grave.

I mark the moment we buried my mother. Sunshine overhead, somewhere a rainmaker crying. My auntie collapsing to the ground. Dust to dust, we gather handfuls of earth and let it thud onto the wood. I mark the words the preacher said. Obi barely holding it together. Nkiru trembling beside me. Four sisters in a line. Whispering goodbye.

And now, life goes on. But I mark each Sunday. I mark the third of every month. I mark the weeks as they go by. I mark the rainfall when it’s heavy. I mark the ring I put on every day. I mark the songs that remind me of her. And today, I mark an anniversary. Two months since we lowered her body into the ground. People wonder. Do you feel better? Do you have closure? How are you now?

Ok, I answer truthfully. Love is love and laughter is everything. But what I really mean is that there is no closure. There are walls inside forever blown apart. I miss my mother. She’s gone and it can never be ok. I mean to say that loss is a process of marking. With time, the things we mark become the things that make us. Perhaps, even, the things that save us. We become the stories we pass on.

Comments

This is so beautiful. Your mother left her mark on this earth. For those of us who never had the chance to know her, we get to experience her through the beautiful way you live your life.
God bless you in this season and thank you for sharing your heartfelt words with us.

Oh Uju, so, so beautiful, I am in floods of tears reading, your tribute is so moving I’m lost for words- you are so right that everything we mark, is part of us and becomes part of our narrative and helps us mourn, find joy, remember and live- we are the storymakers and those stories last forever ( I think that’s why I became a filmmaker to start, to capture and document family stories or those that had links to those stories, to archive and preserve them). Your Mum lives on through you all. What an incredible, beautiful woman she was. I know that too, just by knowing you. Love you Uju and here for you always xxx

Aww Vicki you bring tears to my eyes, you and your big squishy heart ;-) Thanks so much for such lovely words. Funny enough this wasn’t the post I planned to have on my blog, but when I sat down yesterday this is what came out. So personal so wasn’t sure to publish, but writing is what helps me and I wanted to mark the day somehow, even though it wasn’t a traditional ‘anniversary’. My mum was a wonderful storyteller and it’s a privilege to be part of that tradition. And yes an incredible human being. Lots of love to you xoxo

Oh Uju, like Vicki said this brought tears to my eyes and goose bumps to my flesh. Beautifully put and so true – we do mark everything in one way or another. Your mum will always live on inside you and your sisters and you will always have your beautiful memories to cherish. I feel your pain – I am always here for you my dear friend. xx

Uju, your eloquence blows me away. I never met your mother but you have me grieving your grief, feeling your loss in a way not many people can make others feel. My heart goes out to you, your boys, your sisters and everyone else who your mother’s life touched.
I hope being able to write this post and share it will bring some level of respite. xxxxxxxx

Oh darling, still sitting here crying, and cannot stop. So pleased you decided to hit the publish as it’s just so beautiful. I can still remember the day when I spoke to you and almost could not speak. Losing a parent is one of the hardest things and unless we experience it, nobody can explain or prepare us for it. I agree time will make is a bit easier, but will never take the pain away. I still cry loads when I realise I will never see my dad again, and running is my kind of therapy…just running away from it all. Hope we can really meet soon and hug and talk xxx love you xxx M.

Sweetheart Mirka, hope you’re ok now? Really moved by how deeply you feel and I remember both of us crying on the phone about my mum and about your papa too. Love that, running as therapy. I guess writing is mine. Hugs lovely xoxo

Dear Uju, thank you so much for letting us into your world, and for sharing this. It’s so beautiful, and really honours your mother. I’m so, so sorry for your loss. Your mother looks and sounds as if she was a beautiful woman… inside and out. I pray for God’s comfort for you and your family during this time. Big love. Fatima x

This is deep and thorough. I was fortunate to make contact and be blessed by her ambience and gentle humility.
I remember her calling me back and squeezing money into my hands when leaving for Christmas and telling me to make sure I stay loyal to my boss (Uncle Obi) . She was grateful I spent my Christmas under her roof…
I remember printing the last letters she needed and helping her reset her atm pin the Thursday she left. Sitting on the right hand side of her prato she gently said ‘unu no nke oma o’…… I remember her smiling and wandoo waving at me (she escorted mama to the airport’.
I remember her gentility, generosity and her kind care in one year, so I may be I understand (or maybe I dont) the influx of love you experienced all through as her children.
All in all, I have learnt that our loves ones live eternally in our thoughts and hearts irrespective of the planes they maybe on.
Flawless diction, seamless correlation, beautiful piece. Nice one aunty Uju.. …. Nda Chinyere lives on

Thank you so much Nnamdi, it’s lovely to hear of your last moments with her and that she touched you in the time you knew her. She affected so many people, we can only be thankful and try to emulate in what little ways we’re able. Hope you’re well, thanks again!

I was there at the back, with my grandmum on the left of the screen, Uncle Obi, Uncle Pax, My very own mother.
Even though i only met her a few times i still cried with everyone else because just meeting her made me realize that i would want to be as successful as her when i grow up.
Just seeing my mum bury her own aunt just made me cry even harder.
I could not even say anything related to Wandoo because i felt so sorry.

Aww Vicki sweetheart stop reading! lol (had to say that to my brother after a poem I wrote for my Dad kept setting him off too). The comments are just lovely aren’t they, and my mum was so loved it makes me really proud and all I can do is be thankful and try to keep spreading the love too. Big squeezes x

Uju daring, this is one of the most beautiful, eloquent posts I have ever read. My eyes are full of tears and I am in awe of the beauty of this piece. So incredibly moving and raw, yet also gentle and accepting. Your Mum sounds like she was one hell of a woman and you, lovely lady, are too. Well done. This cannot have been easy but it is a beautiful tribute to your Mum and the love you clearly shared xxx

Oh wow Katie, what a lovely response, so kind of you and glad you get a sense of my mum through my post. It’s hard to put into words what she meant to me, and so many people. Funny the poem really spilled out of me, it was putting it on the blog that was the difficult bit but I’m happy that I did as it’s connected with so many readers. Thanks again hon x